


You Do Something To Me

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Slow dance fic, Season 11 sap and fluff.





	You Do Something To Me

Rehab is punishing. It’s as absurd as it is clinical. But it’s necessary. Dana Scully pushes open the door and takes a deep breath before she walks in. The radio is cranked up and something ridiculously disco is jiving out of the speakers. Absurd. Mulder’s white fingers grip the two walking bars and he is shuffling along between them, out of step, out of breath and being berated by the physio. Clinical.  
“Dr Scully, you’re early.” The physio checks his watch after he makes his statement.  
Mulder looks round, skin grey and greasy beneath the temporary redness brought on by his efforts. His eyes are puffy and he needed a shave three days ago. He moves his hands an inch on each bar and heaves in a breath. The veins on his forearms snake and flex under his skin. He is trembling with exertion. Scully holds her breath as he makes it to the end of the bars and crumples to the mat. The physio helps him up and Mulder bends forward, hands on knees.  
“Same time tomorrow, Mr Mulder.” The physio pats him on the back and Scully bites her lip as The Bee Gees sing ‘Staying Alive’. “He’s doing well, but he can do better.” She hears Mulder telling him to fuck off and she clears her throat to cover it as the physio walks past and out of the room.

He’s in the shower for a long time. She goes to knock, then pulls back her knuckles, then raises them again. A light tap and she’s leaning her face against the door. There’s music beneath the charge of the water.  
“Mulder, it’s me.”  
She strains at the door. Rock, something she doesn’t recognise. The beat is relentless but the melody is obscured by the spray.  
“Mulder? Are you all right?”  
Rising crescendo to the bridge, then the water rushes out even more forcefully. She pushes open the door and steam wraps around her. The radio is on the vanity and a new song begins. Mournful guitar wails through the hiss of the shower then the voice of a young Londoner, sombre-soft then hitting a more urgent higher note as the song builds.  
In your white lace and your wedding bells, you look the picture of contented new wealth  
But from the on-looking fool who believed your lies, I wish this grave would open up and swallow me alive  
The water clanks off and she hears the chorus.  
For the bitterest pill is hard to swallow; the love I gave hangs in sad coloured, mocking shadows  
The bitterest pill is mine to take, if I took it for a hundred years, I couldn’t feel any more hate  
She looks at the mirror and sees the shower door slide open. Mulder, still bones and angles, reaches out a hand to grab a towel. She slips back out.

The tee-shirt hangs off his frame and he has to tie the jogging bottoms tighter to keep them up, but he’s improving. He sets the radio on the kitchen bench and offers her a coffee.  
“Tea would be better, Mulder. There’s peppermint or chamomile.”  
“I thought I’d had enough punishment at rehab today. That stuff looks like piss and stinks like it too. I don’t need to taste it.”  
She nods. “Mulder, I know you’re still feeling the effects of the virus, but you’re doing really well. The physio’s program is tough but it’s working.”  
He bends an arm, pulls back the sleeve and flexes his muscle. “The Rock’s got nothing on me, Scully.”  
From the radio, an upbeat intro sounds out. Staccato notes in triplicate followed by a longer held one, piano and strings, it repeats and a melody plays in the background, then drums signal the first verse.  
I was half in mind, I was half in need  
And as the rain came down, I dropped to my knees and I prayed  
I said, “Oh Heavenly thing, please cleanse my soul  
I’ve seen all on offer and I’m not impressed at all”  
“What are you listening to, Mulder?”  
He smiles and she sees the old Mulder back for a moment. “A little playlist I put together, The Jam, Style Council and Paul Weller.”  
“I’ve never heard it before.”  
He pulls out a chair. “It’s mostly angry music, Scully. I got into The Jam at Oxford.”  
“The Phoebe influence? I get it. I really do.”  
He chuckles. “She wasn’t that bad, Scully. And it wasn’t her. It was a buddy of mine who was really into the punk scene. Denholm Smythe-Walters.”  
Steam from her tea rises and she watches it unfurl. “What an unfortunate name. No wonder he rebelled.”  
“But Paul Weller has a real way with words. His lyrics are very meaningful.”  
She listens to the chorus.  
So when you’re knocked on your back an’ your life’s a flop  
And when you’re down on the bottom there’s nothing else  
But to shout to the top, shout.  
He stretches his legs out in front of him, bending them back and out again. With each movement he exhales and there is pain under his breath.  
“Keep moving whenever you can, Mulder. Your muscles are seizing because of the exertion this morning.”  
A slower song wafts out of the speakers, simple piano and the lead singer’s voice drifts across the notes.  
You do something to me, something deep inside.   
I’m hanging on the wire, for love I’ll never find.  
Mulder nods to the radio. “This is a beautiful song, Scully. Heartfelt.”  
“Heartfelt?”  
“Profound, sincere, earnest.” He reaches his hand out to her across the table. “I’m glad you’re still here, Scully.”  
“Where else would I be?”  
He chuffs. “There was a time when you didn’t want to be with me.”  
She squeezes his hand. “You didn’t want me to be here.”  
“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t…I was…”  
A tear sneaks down her face. “I know. I know how hard it was, Mulder. You came back from that dark place, and I know you can come back from this one.”  
“Scully?”  
She cuffs the tears away. “Yes, Mulder?”  
“Dance with me?”  
Twilight casts shadows through the slats of the blind and he leans into her, guiding her in a slow circle in their kitchen. He smells of misty forests and danger and comfort, he smells of pine and intensity and promises to be kept.  
You do something to me, somewhere deep inside  
Hoping to get close to you, a peace I cannot find

Dancing through the fire, yeah  
Just to catch a flame, just to get close to  
Just close enough, to tell you that…  
He croons into her hair. “You do something to me.”


End file.
